He broke the kiss just long enough to look down at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “You drive me insane, you know that?”
The possessiveness in his voice wasn’t a red flag. It was a promise. Sata Jones wasn’t a man of gentle poetry. He was a man of action. He crashed into your life like a wrecking ball, breaking down all your careful walls with his brutal honesty and terrifying loyalty.
You were sitting on his leather couch, your legs tucked beneath you, watching him. He stood by the window, the low light carving sharp lines into his jaw. He wasn’t wearing his usual flashy stage clothes, just a plain black tee and grey sweatpants. His dreads were pulled back, exposing the corded muscles of his neck.
“You’re staring, baby,” he said, not turning around. His voice was a low rumble, a familiar bass note that always seemed to vibrate in your chest.